by David Keck
"King of Heaven," Durand murmured, wincing, but he did not retreat. The stink was foul, but there was more to it than the reek of a latrine pit. He clenched his teeth.
Within the niche, the light of the slivered moon glistened on round edges. There would be an icon in there somewhere, some Power's face staring out, likely rubbed smooth by the touch of many fingers. With the shrine at a roadside, there was a good chance Durand was staring into the face of the Traveler.
As he peered, the confusion of glistening points took shape. Over a knob of stone gleamed blood, buttery smears of excrement, and something else: a livid rag that obscured the face of the little Power. He looked; there was something about the shape. Then he saw: a narrow slit in the pale rag was feathered with short hairs. Durand stumbled backward, too late. There had been eyelashes in that scrap of skin.
"Mad," said Heremund. "Someone's mad."
"Who'd do a thing like this?" Durand said. Who would dare? Every soul in the Atthias had heard stories of lords who'd stabled their horses in sanctuaries and woken up blind. Or men who had offered coin to some shrine or other and then gone back on their word only to find themselves crippled or bereaved soon after. Durand could not imagine toying with the Powers of Heaven.
"Hells," said Heremund. "Let's get away from here. Someone's playing with the Powers. There's a town not far off, and I aim to be in it before I say another word about this place."
He got no argument from Durand.
5. Peers of the Leopard
Knowing there was a madman in the forest with them, they walked with their eyes on the trees. There was a murderer loose. Or a grave robber. A madman or a necromancer. The howl of a wolf broke loose among the branches. "Gods. Enough is enough," said Heremund. Durand could hear the drum of padded feet and the huff of breath gulping round the loop of a long tongue. "Run," he said, and both men took off.
The pounding came closer still, and closer. The full, wild power of the wolf's howl screamed out. Any moment, teeth would snap in their throats. Then, suddenly, there were buildings. It was the town. Firelight swung ahead of Durand, and he bolted for it, throwing down his bundles. He nearly lifted Heremund off his feet. And then they were surrounded.
A dozen armed men were lurching from round a bonfire. There were houses. The firelight seemed to slither on blade edges, and—for an instant—Durand could see that every man was scared out of his head.
"We've got you, you bastard!" someone shouted, and the whole camp of soldiers leapt on him. He had an instant to think of Heremund—the man must have stopped—then something stabbed a shock down his shoulder. Though he threw his fist, blows rained down on him like hammers on an anvil—he even saw the sparks.
Then it all stopped.
Durand breathed with his face in the muck. Someone was laughing. Clucking his tongue. When Durand peered up, there wasn't a soul looking his way, for every eye was on a small man beyond the bonfires. This was no giant who could stop a mob of soldiers, but a clerk or priest. A small man, all in black; the empty sleeves of his gardecorps robe swung nearly to the ground. The hanging robe and spindly shins made him look like one of the roadside rooks. He cocked a pale, bald head.
"Ah, yes. Fear and rage," the man cooed. 'Two faces on one thin coin."
A leather brown soldier with a shock of blond hair turned on the Rook. "You'd best get inside before something happens to you, priestling."
Though Durand liked the soldier's chances against the stranger, the scrawny Rook showed no sign of fear.
"You will have noticed, I think, that a cur will snarl when he is afraid."
"Right," said the soldier. "We've had enough of you."
The Rook clucked his tongue. "You are so eager. Such a hurry. It comes to us all in the end, you know."
The soldier only slipped a mace from his belt.
In that taut moment, the door to the house burst open, spilling a rectangle of lamplight into the road. Someone stepped out, vanishing in the shadow of the building for a moment, only to reappear in the firelight: a square-shouldered man in the arms and armor of ten kingdoms.
"What is all this?" the newcomer growled—his eyes were all glints and creases: glass chips in a leather glove. "Have I got to watch you like your mothers?"
He narrowed one glinting sliver at the Rook. "You. That's enough. Old Mulcer's not so useless we can afford to chuck him."
With a shrugging flourish of upturned palms, The Rook bowed, and the blond soldier backed off. This explained things: The Rook was cocksure because he had friends. The newcomer's glinting eyes turned on Durand. "And you. I don't think I've had the pleasure."
Warily, Durand climbed to his feet, as the fierce old captain looked him up and down.
"Durand," Durand supplied. "Of the Col."
It was as he looked down on the captain that he noticed how the helmets shone full of firelight. He saw blades and pommels, and a good score of horses standing off behind the house. And, through all the bruises, he grinned: These were his knights.
"And you started this?" said the captain.
"Begging your pardon, Lordship." This was his chance. "I stumbled on your men here. I meant no harm. I can fight."
Around the circle of soldiers, there would be a half-dozen black eyes.
"So I see." The man eyed Durand a moment longer, then smirked. There was nothing between his eyeteeth but a black slot.
"I'm called Gol. Sir Gol of Lazaridge, and I serve Lord Radomor, son of the Duke of Yrlac who rules the lands west of the Banderol."
Durand knew the name "Radomor." The man was a hero. He had even married the elder daughter of Durand's duke, a wedding Durand half-remembered.
"And I reckon hired," said Gol. "It just happens that we're about to lose a man. But, friend Durand, ancient practice has it you've got to buy a round for your new comrades, 'specially when you've given them a fright and a few bruises."
Durand thought of the empty pouch on his belt, and wondered whether anything would ever be simple. "I've had some hard luck, this last moon," he said.
Gol chuckled. "That's easily solved, friend." He slipped something from his belt and sent it sailing through the smoke and firelight There was a clink as Durand caught the thing: a purse, he saw as he opened his fist.
"Now you're bought and paid for, lad."
One of the men nearby fished the thing from Durand's palm, tossing it for weight. "One round?" he said. "It ought to do."
"Drink up," Gol said, and then to Durand: "You look hungry enough to work, but we'll see, I think. We're hunting a thief here in Tormentil."
This got a look from every man around the fires.
"Aye, lads. We've found the root of the trouble: why it's been so hard for these folk to pay the king's tax, why the harvest has been so poor lately. Seems our own bailiff has been cheating. Fining his friends and neighbors for this and that, and none of it ever getting back to His Lordship. And this bailiff, he runs the mill as well as all the rest of it And His Lordship's peasants say this bailiff's been shorting them for two years. Every mother's son grumbling against his lord and master when it was this thieving whoreson responsible. Poisoning His Lordship's good name. Getting folks worked up against the king. And now this thieving little oath-breaker's got himself caught with his fingers in it."
Taking a thief might be a good start.
"Hey!" said one of the soldiers. "I've found another one."
Just beyond the ring of fires, Heremund stepped from behind a cart.
AS THE OTHERS drank up, Durand dashed off to collect his gear from the roadside. With a dozen or more armed men behind him, he no longer feared the forest. Heremund darted after him the instant Durand stepped from the camp.
"Durand, Gods, it's him!" he said, scuttling close.
"Who?" He thought he saw one of his bags up the track.
"The prophecy." The skald's tone was desperate. "It was Radomor."
Durand took an instant to recall.
"It was his father's court I was at!" said Heremund. "We've blund
ered right into it."
Durand ducked, reaching for a bag slumped in a pool of dirty water. As he caught hold of the thing, he realized that he had found his hauberk. It streamed as he wrenched it from the ditch.
"Heremund, this Radomor's practically a kinsman. I was at the wedding." He remembered now that the duke's girl had dark hair. "And he's a hero, isn't he?"
"Aye, but—"
"Nearly died saving the king at the Battle of Hallow Down," Durand recalled. The duke put on a great feast down in Acconel, and the skalds shook the rafters.
"Yes, Durand, but—"
"It's a noble house. There was a king, wasn't there?" Now, Durand argued as he stooped and plucked his belongings.
"Old King Carondas was his grandsire, Durand."
Durand threw his hands wide, his point proven. "Carondas's face is still on half the pennies in Errest. We've hunted a lord's train for a hundred leagues, and not had a sniff. I can hardly leave him."
"Lad, I don't—"
"Besides," Durand reasoned, "I've taken his money." "I saw that," muttered the skald. "You won't go hungry with this lot."
Durand was not concerned. A new man must be tried. He had most of his things by now, bedroll to iron mail all sopping wet.
"I was never going to make it to this tournament of yours, was I? And how long would I last without a penny? I'd be dead or begging before the next moon. And it's done you no good traveling with me, has it?"
Heremund caught Durand by the tunic. "It was me, boy. Don't you understand? I was the fool with the vision. I fear I've done a terrible thing."
"Heremund! You've told me yourself. He's a hero. Think. What sense does your prophecy make?"
"No, boy. It's all coming back. All of it."
The frantic skald caught sight of something in the mud, and absently ducked to fish it out. It was some kind of strap.
Durand squared with the little minstrel. The alehouse camp-fires flickered beyond him. He took a breath. "All right, Heremund. Tell me what you saw. If it was so terrible, tell me."
Heremund blinked where he squatted with the muddy strap. "I remember snatches. Darkness and war. Gates and walls and towers. Fire. And the words. I don't know where the words came from."
At the camp, Gol was back among the men, bellowing and kicking laggards into motion.
"Heremund," Durand said, "this Lazar Gol has taken me on, straight from the wild forest. You saw it. The Powers have set this in my path for a reason," he said.
Durand reached down and took the strap from Heremund's hand. With a sucking plop, his shield burst from the mud. As Durand lifted the thing, Heremund rubbed at its face, baring stags' heads under the filth.
Down the road, Gol's tone was harsher now.
"They want me," said Durand.
Heremund was nodding as Durand left him and walked into the firelight.
"RIGHT," SAID GOL. "Most of you are pie-eyed, and you'll pay later. But I'll need a few lads. So, who'll I take on this little midnight stroll?" He peered through slit eyes, then reached out, tapping a man on the surcoat. "You. And you. And you."
He stopped, turning on Durand "And you, our new friend."
Gol swaggered through the others till he stood below the crossed arms of a giant Valduran, complete with jutting beard and wide shaven forehead. "And you, Fulk An'Tinan? You're still with us, ain't you?"
The big man stopped, thick lips stiff as a dead man's fingers. Durand wouldn't have been taunting him. He had heard it said that the Valdurans had held their mountain strongholds against all comers since long before Saerdan set eyes on old Errest From their mountains, the warriors of the high passes watched nations rise and fall like tides round an island. And besides, the man's belt could girth an ox.
"I know it's your last night with us," Gol said, "but the night's not over yet. They'll all tell you His Lordship's hired me to play captain, so I'm here to squeeze every penny. And you, my friend, still owe His Lordship a few hours."
The Valduran hardly blinked. "It should have ended on Hallow Down. We, all of us, gathered to fight Borogyn and his Heithans. A little coin in the fighting season. Now we are this man's bond-warriors, bought while his last war-band were still cooling in the earth, his every bondman slain round him while he lived. It should have ended on the Down."
Gol turned away from the wild talk of the outlander, favoring his men with a mocking look. Durand wondered how a Valduran found himself so far from his homeland.
"It'll be just strong arms on this, lads," said Gol. "Shouldn't be anything fatal. A midnight stroll. Right? Now, if we're going to find a miller, we ought to find his mill. Come on."
The grim outlander shouldered his sword.
Gol cupped his hand at his ear, listening for the stream and spinning wheel.
"This way, lads!"
They tramped through the berms and fences of the village until they found the looming mill, its wheel bashing away out of sight on some tributary of the Banderol. A curt gesture of Gol's hand had two men at the front door. Durand was pleased to see that Gol's troop wasn't all drinking and bluster. They moved with speed and silence.
"We've come from Lord Radomor," shouted Gol. Inside there was a slamming sound. "Break it!" Gol roared, but the door held.
Gol shoved his finger at Durand and the Valduran. "You two. Around back!" And they were off. Durand bolted around the mill, blundering through tangled bushes and a heap of eel traps on the way. There were one, two corners, and then a straight charge for river.
A gaping face appeared.
"Ballocks!" it said, and vanished.
Durand darted after. There was a sill of earth along the foundation next to the vast waterwheel flinging spray. The crooked bailiff had come out a back door, but Gol's men were already there—pounding at the new obstacle—before the man could turn. The bailiff was trapped between Durand and his own mill wheel.
"Come on then," said Durand, loud against the racket of the wheel.
The bailiff glanced once between Durand and the flickering blades, then—impossibly—he turned to the spinning flash and jumped. Men on the far side of the wheel roared. The bailiff soared. His foot touched a flying paddle, and he winged skyward so that, in an instant, his hands were on the shaggy eaves of the mill's roof and he was gone.
"King of Heaven," said the knights who appeared behind Durand. "Never seen the like."
Durand scowled up at the eaves three fathoms over his head. Letting a man slip through his fingers was no way to prove himself.
"What one man can do, another can match," he said.
With a breath caught in his teeth, he jumped.
And missed—almost.
His foot shot down a greasy rail. There was an instant of spinning horror. His knee caught. He clung, twisted, and the wheel carried him high. Torchlight flashed on wavelets. He saw eel traps under the river's skin. Then the shaggy eaves loomed like a bear, and he threw himself, heaving his chest over the roof's edge. The wheel under his heels looked hungry for bone.
"Champion of Heaven, teach me courage," Durand grunted.
Then he was up and peering over the humpbacked roof for the bailiff. He might have been on an empty island.
"Oh very good," Sir Gol announced from the road. "Come down you daft bastard." It took a heartbeat for Durand to realize that the captain wasn't talking to him. And that he must be able to see the bailiff.
Durand crawled the soggy rooftop toward the ridge. Spidery plants caught in the forks of his splayed fingers. It was a long time since anyone had paid a thatcher to mend this heap.
"Come down and give up the bloody coin," Gol continued. "Maybe I'll say I never found you. That was some trick, but the game's up, I think."
Durand peered over the roof-peak, picking out a pale shape sprawled over mold-black thatch. The man was staring down on Gol and his men.
"Come on, I'd hate to have to fire the mill, and you can't live up there forever. We've got you."
The sprawled form made no move. The thieving mi
ller-bailiff judged that no one would be coming after him—not soon—and that Gol was going to wait a long while before burning down their master's mill.
Silent, Durand climbed to his feet.
"You should've been a sailor, friend," Gol said. "We've never seen anything like it." There was something said among the men that Durand couldn't make out—and laughing.
Durand stole down the slope of the roof, fighting against noise and bad balance. It was like walking on rotten mattresses, but he let the shouts from the street and the thunder of the mill wheel smother the little pops and crackles of the straw.
Finally, he could see over the roof's edge. Gol's men were pacing and staring up; they spotted him.
The bailiff must have seen the same thing. He twitched then, spinning onto his back, and Durand realized he wasn't in a good position.
He felt the bailiff's hands on him. The man's boot swung up for his guts—a wrestler's throw with a wild six-fathom fall at the end for Durand if he couldn't get loose.
They were locked together. For an instant, he and his victim were poised on the brink, then Durand's strength won out, and he wrenched the bailiff's shoulders off the roof and into the air. Durand's smile twisted, and he shoved the man up, pressing him high.
Gol’s boys smiled up. A few flapped their hands, beckoning.
"Right," said Durand, and, with a chuckle, he pitched the fugitive down into a trio of laughing soldiers.
When he got down, the lads were shoving wineskins in his face and clapping him on the back.
"You, friend, are the most fearless squirrel in all the Atthias!" announced the blond soldier, Mulcer, who had squared off with the Rook. "Who needs ladders? He's a one man siege tower, this one!"
Gol laughed with the rest, before the whole lot of them rounded slowly on the bailiff.
"Where is it then, eh?" Gol said. "We went to a lot of trouble to get our hands on your neck. You think we're going to let you go without wringing the money out of you?"
They had circled the bailiff.
"Right boys," said Gol. "Let's hear what he has to say." Two men caught the bailiff's arms and held him tight. "The money's mine, Lordship," said the bailiff. One of the men jerked his fist back, but Gol raised his hand. "No. I want to hear this." "A man's allowed to save," answered the bailiff. "Clever."
